Project 52: Toppling Atlas

1 short story a week. 52 weeks a year.

Tuesday, July 2, 2013

We buried Parker
yesterday, and as usual in this town, the affair was flashier than a funeral
has any right to be. Small town living is strange in the way it creates its own
customs and traditions, and one of our many quirks was that regardless of how
you carried yourself in the town, every man, woman, and child would attend your
funeral. A body 6 feet underground, and nearly 100 people, all dressed to the
9s. I’ve always thought it an asinine tradition, but I suppose us good
Christians are supposed to celebrate life, afterall.

In all honesty, I
should feel bad for Parker.We sent a
small regiment over to Germany during the second Great War, and he was the only
to return (he was hit in the ass by a wild piece of shrapnel, and having
enlisted late in the war, sat the remainder out.) Coming back home, his wife –
whom had a stupid name: Maribell, or Marilanna, or the like – had left him for
a fella from up north, and fell deeply in love with his personality and good
looks, or rather “money,” as we all really knew. Shamed by his injury, and on account
of his wife just up and leaving him, Parker rarely spoke anything resembling
the truth. Every town has a man, who consistently, night after night, perches
over the counter of a downtown bar, and tells stories that change slightly with
each retelling, usually with a significant addition towards grandeur. All the
men of those towns may very well have been taught by Parker.

Even after a
lifetime of irritating habits, Parker was much more known for one specific
event, only several months prior to his burial. Like most lonely old men of a
certain age, he was prone to pinching the behinds of waitresses and other
working women, followed by what he assumed to be a coy pick-up line. I’ve never
seen a man slapped as hard as Parker, or one screamed at as much, yet is never
did a lick of good to change him.

More recently in
his life, Parker had even deluded himself into trying his games on those who
did not live in this town: the occasional woman stopping for a bite to eat on
her way off to someplace better. Eventually – as humans are wont to do – we
simply accepted it as a commonplace occurrence, much to the horrified
expression of any travelers that may be passing on through. No on in town gave
those wayward souls any mind anyway though, seeing as how nobody stayed in this
town. Well, except for us unfortunate souls born in this damn place, or the
occasional person who finds a way out such as Marielda – or perhaps it was Marilou
– did.

Back on topic,
the event happened one night several months ago. A particularly tough looking woman
– probably in her early thirties - rode into town on a beat up old motorcycle,
and sat down to drink like a local. Those that stay constantly on the road have
an insight to the clockwork of townsfolk, and know how to pick up local
customs, and blend in for an evening. Parker - never missing an opportunity to
ruin an otherwise merry night – decided on smacking the ass of the woman (who
gave several different names to several different people throughout the night,
so for the sake of continuity, let’s call her “Lady”) as she walked to the
restroom. “How about you and I get out of here?” he slyly – or so he assumed –
asked Lady, sending the wrinkles of his skin marching up his forehead.

Setting down a
rag being used to clean a glass that had long since already been cleaned, Sam
the bartender started to walk over to Parker, assumedly to toss his old ass out
into the most embarrassing place in proximity, hopefully a muddy pit, or somebodies
returned liquor and food after too much drinking. Holding her hand up, however,
Lady smiled, and slipped her arm around Parker, and stared down at him as
though a rattlesnake following the movements of a mouse that knew it couldn’t
get away. “Alright,” she said, her smile dripping with venom. Parker’s old eyes
opened wide, and he tried unsuccessfully many times to speak, but his mouth
only hung open, working noiselessly. “Come on,” she cooed, and plucking at his
sleeve, they walked out of the bar. I’ve often heard the expression
“slack-jawed yokels,” in reference to small town people such as us, but the
saying would really click with you if you saw all the open mouths of Sam’s
Place that night.

Walking to his
truck after he pointed it out, Lady opened the door, and gestured for him to
enter. Hesitantly climbing in, Parker stopped himself midway in, and turned to
apologize. “Listen, I’m sorry for what I did, you don’t have to-“. “What are
you going on about now? Are we doing this, or what?” she responded. Climbing
in, the sad curiosity of the bar managed to peak out from the nearby window -
left full of streaks from the half-assed cleaning of Sam’s lazy nephew of whom
he employed as a personal favor to his sister – and stared at the truck as
though vultures.

Jokes started to
nervously chirp into the quiet of the bar, as some of the older men made
half-hearted jokes about how long they thought he would last, and if anyone
would be up for a little sport – gambling mostly. The pressure of the room
reached its climax – in hindsight, at least something did – as Lady strolled
back towards the bar, sending us scrambling frantically to regain some sense of
normal composure, of which, as with 99% of situations of this nature, we most
likely failed. Strolling back in with what I could only call a triumphant
smile, Lady reached over the counter, grabbed a bottle of cheap Whisky, gave a
small salute to Sam – receiving a nod from him in return – and started to walk
back out of the bar. It was the nephew - who is 22 if I remember correctly –
that called out tastelessly “what happened?”

Stopping before
the door, Lady turned, and the smile finally reached her eyes. “He couldn’t
perform,” she said, and threw her head back laughing as she walked out into the
night. The sound of her old motorcycle roared up a few minutes after, and she
was on her way to some other small town, we assume. Parker sheepishly walked in
about half an hour later, and ordered a glass of water. I’ve never seen a man
look so distraught, and he was chased out as we burst into a unified plague of
laughter that swarmed around him.

I remember that
for the next few months, there was not a single pair of raised eyebrows from
one of Parkers sneak attacks, nor was there a joke passed where he was not at
the butt-end of it. He spent his entire life alone, eating at the diner and the
bar, that he didn’t really know how to prepare food for himself. Subsequently,
he still showed up at the diner and bar, but he no longer drank alcohol, and
ate his food slowly, never smiling. You’d think as humans – and as I recall
writing earlier, good Christians – we should have tried out best to warm his
heart, but we didn’t.

He passed away
from old age – again, several months after this event – and the elder folk of
town finally managed a successful campaign to stop the jokes and laughter. They
said that we should be ashamed of ourselves, to laugh at the deceased in such a
way, and that we should have been better to him prior to his death. Some tried
to convince themselves that they were laughing “with Parker,” or that they were
just laughing because everyone else was, but no, none of that is quite right.
No, we laughed right up until Parker was buried, and afterwards kept the
laughter locked behind closed doors, but it never truly went away.

I’d like to get
out of this town, but I worry if I do, I’ll just end up rotting wherever I end
up. Or perhaps that’s too melodramatic. Perhaps I’m just afraid to leave this
town the same reason as anyone else. I just have a better story for why I
don’t. Sure as hell helps me sleep at night, thank you for asking.

Monday, May 27, 2013

“Don’t just stand there and scream,” cried
Weil, the leader of our company. He was shouting over his shoulder at me; a
slightly curved sword in one hand, and a fanged mace in the other. Both seemed
alive as the blood that slicked the surface of the weapons would pulse and
squirm, before jumping to the ground and digging into the soil like small crabs.
It is my presumption, as well as hope, that it did so to die. If these actions
are indicative of its nature as a seed, we are all doomed.

Try as I might,
my feet, tongue, and mind held still, as though an insignificant puddle of
water that freezes over as winter unveils its first snap. The screams of men
whirled around me, biting like flies; infighting amongst themselves to see
which lucky pest gets the first taste. Whereas the cries of men latched on,
freezing me under its touch, the sound of our enemies gripped me with
blacksmith pincers, and set fire to my bones, snapping them under the weight of
its invisible hammer.

The creatures we
were fighting were almost twice as tall as a man, but with limbs that seemed no
thicker than the handle of a broom; they had a strength that blew past our
perceptions of their anatomy. It seemed as though all the muscle and tissue had
been removed from their faces, for taut skin stretched over their cheek bones
and jawlines, giving the likeness of a human skeleton covered in flesh. The
skin from around their eyes and lips had been roughly removed, leaving inky
black pits for the eyes, and dark teeth - that seemed to shine as though coated
in oil – that were set in a permanent smile. Their skin was so white, it
reflected even the faintest light of our fires, giving the iridescent
properties of a pearl.

By far though,
the most terrifying aspect of theses abominations were the sounds they would
emit. As they walked, they would sway – in the likeness of newborn cattle - and
I can only describe their sound as a hundred children, simultaneously crying,
each trying to out howl the other. However, when they ran, it turned into a
maelstrom of child-like giggling, and I cannot fathom how men like Weil could
still use their knees properly when the hell screeches started to flare up
around the battlefield.

Turning his head
around, Weil’s eyes came down on me as though augers and he started shouting.
“Pick up a sword, boy! I said don’t just stand there and scream, you daft
fucking-“. His fiery speech was ended prematurely as long, spindly fingers
spider-crawled down from the crown of his head, and slipped into his mouth
precisely. In one fluid motion, the hand ripped up towards the dark sky - where
no stars danced, as thick clouds had filled in the heavens; flickering shadows
and firelight played on their surfaces. His head was missing from the jawline
up, and the rhythmic fountaining of blood splashed onto the smiling face of the
creature that loomed above him.

I cannot be
certain, but in the wavering light of our fires, I swear I saw the eyes of the
beast sucking in the blood, as though those inky pits of his eyes were
absorbing the life source of our commander. Turning its head sideways – in the
likeness of an owl trying to fathom the boldness of a lone mouse in a field -
its voice flared back up to a parade of giggling that hung ominously around
with the large smile that clung tightly to its face. I knew in that moment what
the boar must feel like when it sees the hunter before death. This was not a
battle between us as we had all believed when we were marched onto this
battlefield – this was sport, not war.

Life did not
flash before my eyes, as I’ve so often heard in stories. It took only a second,
and I fell in on myself, and knew it was over. The only thing left to do was to
prepare my body for when my soul would depart. I thanked the twenty gods for
the life I had been given so far. I thanked them for all the good I’ve seen in
this life, and that I would die fighting to save all those things I’ve come to
love; no matter that my personally being on this battlefield was irrelevant in
the grand scheme of things. With trembling hands, I ran my thumbs along the
fallen blade of Weil’s sword, and ran them over my closed eyes. I prepared my
body for death, and mourned for the men that lay in many-limbed mountains
around me.

Hands knotted
themselves into my shirt, and roughly hoisted me off the ground. I tried as
hard as I could not to piss myself – for no man should meet his gods soiled in
such a way, but it was of no use. As the hands let me go, I stood with my eyes
closed, covered in piss, and wept openly. Dimly, I heard a voice shouting at me, and in
my daze assumed it was of some powerful deity. As I opened my eyes, I saw
Tommas, another company leader, and four men that held the creature pinned into
the soil with large spears, the blades of which were longer than a man’s arm.

Wide-eyed, I
turned and tried to thank Tommas, but he took my shoulders, and began to violently
shake me. “What did you do to the creature!” he shouted, his wild eyes
flickering in the dim firelight. I didn’t necessarily understand, and when I
said as much, a gauntleted fist caught me across the right side of my jaw. “The
beast!” he shouted, “It was standing over you, staring as though confused, not
attacking. What exactly did you do? Why didn’t it kill you?” Staring down into
my hands, I tried to process what he was talking about, and my eyes froze on my
thumbs.

“Blood,” I
mumbled, speaking over his growl to talk louder. “Blood!” I shouted, “I spread
blood over my eyes, and it must have confused the creature, perhaps it couldn’t
tell if I were friend or foe,” I spoke hurriedly – each word nearly tripping
over the last. I watched as his face flashed through the spectrum of confusion:
passing through bewilderment, stepping into curiosity, flickering through
anger, and finally settling on suspicion. “Why did you have blood on your eyes,
boy?” Tommas asked through slanted eyes.

My heart was
crawling up my throat as I realized what I had just admitted. “The Wild Faiths
were outlawed many years ago, heathen,” he spoke with a cold, and calculating
voice. Within seconds, his men plucked their spears out from the beast - as it
had finally stopped thrashing its gangly appendages on the ground - and held
them towards me, as though I were in the shape to try running. “The law says
that heathens must be killed on sight,” Tommas muttered dispassionately. “Kill
him.” His soldiers set their shoulders back, in preparation to lunge their
oversized spears at me, and something foreign ran through my body. I had
assumed I would feel fear in this instance, but I did not. I only felt pity
towards these men; men who were on a battlefield, surrounded by monsters that
could kill them at any moment, and they still could not allow a man to pray to
gods other than their own.

Something inside
me snapped, or perhaps that’s too violent of a comparison. Perhaps it is best
to say that a deep-rooted memory woke up inside of me, and I felt more alive –
covered in blood on a battlefield facing a collar of spears – than I had in my
entire life. My eyes flickered down, and sought the area that the beast had
been laying, and wasn’t the least bit surprised when I saw the corpse to be
missing. I looked Tommas directly in the eyes, and raised my chin to him,
showcasing the neck of which his soldiers would certainly strike with
proficiency in a matter of seconds. Tommas wore an emotionless face, and stared
down at me as though I had gone crazy. “Be done with it,” he said. The first
spear gave a loud clanking noise as it struck the ground, and only seconds
flashed by before the other three followed. I must admit, it was pleasurable
for me to finally see emotion run through that face of Tommas. Even better yet,
it was one of terror, and I drank in the experience gladly.

Tommas stared at
me guiltily, before coughing up enough blood to coat his chin and neck, and
finally passing. The abomination stood over him, sword through its stomach and
spear wounds lacing its body; the noise of the creature finally dying down.
They were both dead, and I walked over to prod at the bodies to make sure.
Looking around, I finally realized the battle was still raging, but the waves
of men were being effortlessly butchered. A few of the creatures turned towards
me, expecting easy game, and stopped to look at my eyes for a while. The heat
of the battle, and the nerves of being near death had caused perspiration to
run down my face, washing away the bulk of my Do’saat blood. Try as I might, I was
slicked with sweat, and the blood would only run down my face when I tried to
reapply it. Turning away, I heard the crying turn into laughter as the beasts
started to charge, and knowing that death would finally find me this time, I
knelt down near the corpses of Tommas and the abomination, and spoke to them in
turn.To Tommas, I thanked him for putting
my faith to the test. I could have taken any number of routes to beg
forgiveness, or lie about my beliefs, but I did not. I thanked him that I may
leave this world, finally sure of myself. For so long, I sat in deference to
The Sons of Sol, and kept my prayers tucked inside of shadows, watchful of
their prying eyes. Thanks to the foul nature of Tommas, I would pass knowing I
would hide no longer. I held anger in my breast towards the man, and wasn’t
remotely ashamed that I was happy he came to know such terror as he did.To the slender creature near him, I
crouched to my knees, and looked over into those writhing black maws that stood
where his eye sockets would be. I tried to pear into their depths, and from the
bottom of my heart, cursed them. “You truly are abominations, and I regret ever
having felt pity towards you. I’m ashamed that I once felt sadness for you,
thinking you were mindless creatures, and how I wished you could live human
lives.” I spoke these words, until a particularly nasty thought fluttered into
my head. Looking over at the corpse of Tommas, I realized that being a human
wasn’t the penultimate experience in this life; that some humans where just as
much beasts as these strange creatures were, and I fell to my knees laughing,
knowing that even though I hated both of them, I would leave this soon leave
this life, having the both of them by my side.I set my head down on the earth next
to them, and started to hum an old song my mother once taught me. It was a
prayer, carried on through our people since our beginnings. Of what challenges,may wicked men ever know?How difficult must it be,

to have no self control?Walk until you drop.Walk until you drop.Sow your bodies field,enjoy the harvest’s crop.

Humming along, I pressed my face into the earth, and felt
the powdered dirt underneath absorb the sweat of my face and cling to my skin.
My people weren’t supposed to leave this world covered in dirt, but my face was
so filthy at this point, I didn’t think it could hurt anything. The laughter
was getting close, so I gently shut my eyes, and gave thanks all over again.
“It never hurts to repeat gratitude, doing so makes up for all the times we
forget,” my father once told me. It would be a lie if I told you I wasn’t
terrified, but somewhere deep inside me, something small was dancing with glee
at the prospect of seeing my parents again. Would they still recognize me?
Would I recognize them? My father was killed during The Uprising, the only time
we tried to stand up to the Sons of Sol. My mother died a few years after, as a
result of a common disease. Stomach Rot was particularly bad that year, and
Wild Faiths where withheld the cure, so that the Sols could make sure their own
people were taken care of. My fingernails unconsciously dug into my palms, as I
went further and further into the recesses of my mind, anger made sport of my
body, as though wildfire during a drought.

I was forcefully
ripped from my dream-like state as something skittered across my eyelids. Even
through the panic, I could still hear that the abominations weren’t upon me
yet, so I assumed I had lain upon a shield bug. I regained my composure, and
shifted my head slightly so as to give it room. “You won’t want to be here in a
few moments, little guy,” I whispered. I wondered if those strange bloodling
creatures were able to hurt insects, and with that thought, the fear I assumed
I had beaten found its way back into my bones.

I tried to lift my
hands to my face to tear away the creatures, but my fingers tore through them
as though water. It felt as though hundreds of small hands filled in the cracks
of my eyelids, and forcibly pried them open, biting my eyelids in the process.
The bloodlings were like small pools of dark water that could grow arms and
legs and scramble along the surface. They were as though unimaginably horrific
spiders that could flow like mercury. I howled in pain, but no amount of
thrashing did any good whatsoever. The pain of having ones eyeballs forcibly plucked
from their body is so unbearable; I cannot even bring myself to find the words
for it. I howled, and I cried, and I sat as a thousand small hands tore into my
face, eating away at the skin of my eye sockets, finally finding home in the
newly formed caverns of my face.Although my world was black, I tried
futilely to blink my eyes, but the muscles I used without thought were no
longer there. It was such a helpless feeling, that I didn’t even notice the red
ink that shot into the darkness of my vision. In seconds, I looked at the world
through rose eyes, and saw three abominations nearly upon me. I had been
defeated too many times on this day, and could no longer deal with such fear. I
know how ridiculous it must be to hear someone say such a thing, especially as
I look upon my words set to paper, but that was earnestly how I felt. I just
could no longer find peace, or anger, or pity. I felt fear, and in such a
moment of weakness, I raised my hands towards the abominations, and screamed as
loud as I could: “Leave me alone!”It was of no sense I can explain
to you now, but I could feel the blood that surged through my body, and I could
feel it in others too. It was as though I could sense life itself, and could
sense it as though sight, or smell. In my mind, I could feel the blood in their
bodies, and saw it somehow as through a thread. Snatching them in my fist, I
ripped them out of existence, and saw the creatures collapse as though puppets
when the handles are dropped. I sat in awe as my mind tried to process the
feeling of joy that was trying to seep into my mind. Before I knew what was
happening, I was walking through the battlefield, shredding abominations left
and right; each fallen body making me more familiar with this strange power.
The cries of men turned into cheers as I tore through the abominations, until I
turned on them too, and found myself howling in laughter. Behind my shrieks, I
could hear the voices of a hundred children laughing like the abominations had;
however, my own voice came through the loudest. I was a marriage of the humans
and the abominations, and I had an ever-increasing well of destruction at my
fingertips. Minutes tiptoed by, until silence fell on the field, and I stopped
laughing. Tilting my head north, I saw the gleaming tower of Solius, the
capital city of the Holy Order of Sol, and knew in that even the small amount
of control I had over my body was quickly fleeting. It was wrecking my body as
though a plague, and I knew that I would soon no longer exist as the human I
once had. I would simply cease to be Seni the slave, and I would soon be a
monster, and within the day, I’ll have some terrible name associated me,
forever.

Somewhere deep
inside of me, the feelings of my youth - the feelings of anger that the Sons of
Sol butchered my people for practicing peaceful faiths was burning inside of
me, and I knew I would soon kill them all. The terror I feel for that is the
only thing keeping me in control long enough to write this to you now. I have
tried to cry, but I am no longer capable of forming the necessary tears. Thoughts
whirled around me, such as “would I be able to die,” or “will he heavens still
accept my soul when I do?” I feel myself turning, and am losing the memory of
my parent’s faces. I am losing everything.

Although I can
feel myself slipping away, please remember that I was once a man of truth - a
gentle soul - and I was forced to become a monster. But no, that’s not quite
right, is it? How was I a monster? I will be killing lesser creatures, the
humans and the abominations of which are both deserving of such judgment. I’m
no monster, am I? If the gods are just for their judgments – if they divine for
their power, am I not also a god? No, I cannot say such things, I am surely a
monster, and these words are all just madness. Please, remember that I never
wanted to do this. Goodbye, whoever finds this book. I’m not a monster. I’m not
a monster. I’m a monster and I’ve a debt that needs to be collected. I’m not a
monster. I’m a human. I was a human. I ws nt amonst... Imn ahumn...

-Taken from
a journal found on the Kreshan Battlefield , shortly before the fall of Solius in
the year 172 S.C. The remaining pages were scribbled in an unknown language,
and the back half of the journal was ripped off completely. The monster was pincushioned with arows, and set aflame after four bloodied years. It's body was chopped into seven equal pieces, and attached to weights. They were thrown into the six oceans, its head burned to a cinder and buried under a mountain.

Friday, May 24, 2013

I
know about that girl who disappeared in that field on a wet spring day.
Ashlyn they called her; the girl who always walked through the flowers,
until the mist swallowed her up. Ashlyn Vela was her full name, but she
went by many others throughout her short life. Infectious names that
whirled and stung around her head like “fool, freak, and imbecile”. If I
still had the capacity to feel sorry for them, I'd weep for those men
and women that went out of their way to hurt Ashlyn. Weep, because of
the three names I wrote, those were of the nicest. The worst of the
bunch were too ghastly to keep around, so I will never write them down.
This
type of treatment has always occurred with those who choose to swim
upstream. Although, use of the word “choose” is fickle at best. Ashlyn
never chose to be ridiculed, or beaten, or alone, for example. She did,
however, choose to be happy - to be herself - tragic as that choice
turned out to be. Ashlyn was neither slow, nor strange. She was a
beautiful, and strong girl with a penchant for singing, lonely walks,
and the sea. She was both delicate as a flower, and strong as the sun.
She was as though a fairy from the old tales we all read in school.
She
left us many years ago, and the day I learned the truth of her
disappearance was the day I wrapped my life up in a small burlap sack,
and left my sleepy little town, full of similar people. The same type of
superstitious fools and bigots that are to be found in any town like
this. The dirt under their fingernails did well to hide the blood on
their hands for many years. Carthage Springs may never recover from what
I did to it, but the way I see it, that's considerably a better deal
than Ashlyn was given. My name is Henry Showalter, and I was the boy who
walked through the flowers, and slipped away through the mist. My name
is Henry, and I am the man who destroyed Carthage Springs.

I
had been too young – too scared – to know it back then, but since I've
known her – the way a man knows a woman – I have loved her. A few weeks
after my 18th birthday, I lost my chance to let Ashlyn know how I felt.
However, it is my expressed hope that if any trace of Ashlyn still
dances on in this world, it will find its way to the content of these
papers, and know of how much I cared for her, and of how much I hurt
this town for what it did.
I'll
always remember the first day I spoke to her. She was beautiful back
then, with a dark ring around her left eye, both of them red and puffy
from crying herself to sleep. Beautiful, in the way she called my mind
away from the typical occupants of a 16 year old: baseball, clubhouses,
and general mischief. She made me want to put my arms around her, and
whisper plans of running away, thoughts of which I had been musing for
quite sometime now myself.
You
see, I too was different, but carried with me the ability to blend. A
skill, which Ashlyn had not a lick of talent with. We lived in a small
southern town, known for its pecan pie, hard-faced men, rocky beaches,
and misplaced prejudices. Misplaced, because it was not wicked men or
their wicked ways that our town hated. Instead, our town hated colored
skin, outspoken women, and religious tolerance. A bad white man, for
example, was a more important human being than a good black woman. I
believe judging somebody on their looks to be as universally abundant as
it is universally ludicrous.
For
these reasons, I considered myself lucky to have been born to a mother
who was an outsider. It was through her that I received the love that
every human being is cursed to be without. The love to see that the
color of ones skin does not dictate the strength of ones heart. I was
shown that being a woman was not a handicap, that in many ways, women
were stronger than a man may ever know. Most importantly though, I
learned to fight for these ideas. Picking this fight would be the knife
that whittled away my life, leaving a pile of strips tossed off to the
side, and the skeletal remains of a strong branch. However, I am not
just a single branch as most people of that town were. I have many
roots, with which to keep me grounded, and many other branches, so as to
constantly reach toward the sky.
As
I mentioned earlier, I had been planning on running away for quite
sometime. My mother, god rest her soul, passed away when I was still
young, and the relationship I had with my father was fickle, at best. I
must have been six or seven when influenza took her from us, and my
father and I handled the grief differently. I looked inward, and tried
my best to live in a manner that would make my mother proud. My father,
he opted for a lifestyle that would destroy his liver, and break
whatever small bond him and his son may have had. My mother had always
been physically frail ever since I was born (one of many reasons my
father would come to hate me), but she never complained. My father did
so twice as much to make up for that.
I've
always believed that a great man will encounter three even greater
loves in his life. The first of these great loves is that of the
immediate family. I call this the warmth. It is the kind of love that
you bundle up, and brave even the fiercest of winter winds, so as to
spend Christmas day with. It is the kind of love that always has enough
dinner when you make an unexpected visit. Secondly, is that of the one
true love, of which I call the passion. It is the kind of love that
drives you mad, and sets fire to your blood. It is the kind of love that
you look forward to seeing in the morning just before slipping off to
sleep. Lastly, the final of these great loves is that of your children.
I've spent many hours thinking of the perfect name for this, but I
always am drawn back to the drive. It is the kind of love that you tuck
in at night, promising to chase off any monsters that dare show
themselves. It is the kind of love that you see more and more of
yourself in, with each and every day that they grow.
With warmth, passion, and drive in your life, there is no telling
what a man or woman may be capable of. I believe myself to be a good
man, and a strong man, but have never considered myself to be a great
man. I say so, because I lost my first two great loves, and I have yet
to come around to finding the third. It is with great sorrow that I tell
you now, I'm unsure if I ever will. How could I lay with a woman who
holds not the entirety of my heart; how could I raise children who could
never feel the warmth of my mother's smile?
When
thinking of my mother - although I still hold a great many memories of
her close to me - I always first recall the same night. I had been
crying for quite some time when she found me. Walking over, she used her
small fingers to tip up my chin, and give me the most wonderful
smile. Wiping tears away with the back of my hand, I managed to blurt
out “I'm sorry I made you so weak, momma,” in between gulping down
oxygen to fuel more sobbing. Until the day I die, I will never forget
what she said to me. She held my head close to her chest, and raked her
fingers through my hair. “Henry, don't you understand?” she said. “I
don't need strong legs, or a back, or even lungs. I have the strongest
heart in the world, and you gave me that, darling.” To any of you who
have the fortune of a good mother, you'll know that there is no other
feeling like it. No pain killer, no psychedelic, no therapy like that of
just a second of being with her. I miss her more as each and every day
passes.
By comparison,
the only good memory I have of my father is the stench of alcohol
seeping out from under a door, and whispering into his ear as he threw a
lamp at me. I consider this a good memory, seeing as how he missed.
Mother had always told me my father was a good man when they first met,
but changed when they moved back here. She blamed the town, and had many
fights with him over taking me away from it. “This town has teeth!” she
used to scream at him. I had never understood what she meant by this
until Ashlyn came around, but it most certainly did. It is of great
misfortune to Carthage Springs that I too, had teeth, and a considerably
stronger bite at that.

Enough
of all this lamenting nonsense, though. Let us jump ahead to that day I
first managed to work up the confidence to talk with Ashlyn. It was a
Wednesday, and as per usual, she sat alone on the side of the school.
Today, she was talking to a plant; an endearing quality of hers that of
course added fuel to the flickering fire of ridicule. As I approached,
she eyed me suspiciously, although I personally had never insulted her. I
never for a second blamed her for that apprehension, though. After all,
if you're not stopping a problem, you're helping it.
Being
16 is a strange time for anyone. We haven't yet trained our mouths to
fully transfer what it is we're thinking, and what we're thinking is
usually a hormonal mess. Everything is growing, and our minds are
unaware of which direction to run. The outcome, is that the things we
say are usually embarrassing, and often resulting in the opposite of
what we had initially hoped for. I wasn't lucky enough to get
“embarrassing”, instead, I managed to find “explosive”. “Your eye looks
pretty bad,” I tossed out casually, holding my body cocked slightly
sideways, and tilting my head down to her. I realize now, I held myself
this way out of fear, but my body language probably appeared as though
arrogant and offensive. I suppose it must have, seeing as how she
reacted.
To any kid on
the playground, I was wincing in preparation of the tiny fist flying at
my face, but that's not the truth of the matter. Honestly, I was
already wincing from the stupidity of what I just said; my head saying
so much, but my mouth blurting out so little. “Looks pretty bad,” I
heard repeating in my head, as those knuckles flew towards my face in
slow motion.
The
crunch of my nose breaking was quickly followed by the laughter of the
children, and the stomping of Ashlyn's feet across the dusty school
yard. I didn't really register any of it though, as the blood poured
from my nose onto the ground. All I could hear was my heart pounding in
my ears. I was in love. Perhaps that seems strange to you, but if you
don't understand what I'm talking about, perhaps you've never been in
love. We are all strange, to some degree, but love is by far the
strangest incident we will ever experience. It is the culmination of
emotion, the driving force behind both the greatest, and dumbest things
in history. The bulk of my time spent with Ashlyn was usually in the
vein of the latter.
“No,
Henry! Keep your head tilted up, and quit talking!” Mrs. Margaret said
from behind a fat finger waving in my face. She was one of only four
teachers in our school, and just so happened to carry with her the
know-how to treat all sorts of ailments and afflictions. It's all just
part of the trade, though, seeing as how she was the mother of eight. If
you're still unaware of how I could think women to be stronger than
men, let that sink in with you. Eight children, on top of being a
teacher of 62. Mrs. Margaret was tough as nails, and sharper than one
too. She was an incredible woman, and I'm still fairly convinced she
hated me.
To this day,
even though I think she may have never liked me, I believe she was one
of the only good people in town. The Great Depression – as they'd later
come to call it – was still young like me, but when it eventually jumped
into full swing, Mrs. Margaret would leave the town to go live with a
sister in New York City to help out. She'd never come back, and I thank
whatever powers may be that she didn't. I'd have hated to see this town
change her, if it could that is.
Despite
many attempts to keep me quiet, my mouth ran faster than I could think.
It's actually sort of funny, in a sense, that I had no real moderation
at this age. By moderation, I mean to say that my mind ran too fast for
my mouth, or my lips moved too quick for my brain. They wouldn't have
the trust to work together for many years to come. Currently though, my
heart beat wildly, and all I could do was ride along with it, babbling
to the ever uninterested Mrs. Margaret.
After
finally shutting me up – by threatening to break my nose again – she
got the whole of what went down. I started off strong, explaining how I
walked over to ask about her black eye, but I spent perhaps a bit too
long describing how Ashlyn looked, sitting on that patch of grass,
speaking to a drooping leaf of some plant. “It's not important how Miss
Ashlyn looked sitting by herself, Henry!” she yelled at me during the
recant. Clearly Mrs. Margaret and I had vastly different concepts of
what was, or is important. The way Ashlyn looked that day was was
exactly why I had a broken nose. Not to mention the way she spoke, and
dressed, and isolated herself. My nose broke for a great many things
about Ashlyn, the way she looked just so happened to have been the
easiest to explain. The only change I made to the story was of how my
nose was actually broken. I told her it was from tripping and falling,
and not at all from the punch of a girl I had 30 pounds on.
As
I finished the story, Mrs. Margaret placed her hands on her hips and
looked me directly in the eye. “Henry, I've had twelve children tell me
Ashlyn punched you directly in the nose. I ought to paddle the both of
you,” she spoke in a slow, and stern voice. I eventually managed to talk
her out of it, although I assume she thought it only because I was
embarrassed at being beaten by a girl. The truth though, was that I'd
die on the spot if Ashlyn was punished because of me. I'd be out of the
race before I even had the chance to truly dig in my feet and push for
it.
Walking from the
nurses office most kids my age would be broken from the howling laughter
of the students. Perhaps fortunately for me, at that moment, I was
untouchable. I beamed sheepish grins at the kids, already deep in
thought of how to next talk to her. Sitting in Mr. Lutz arithmetic class
– a class of which I held only moderate skill in – I couldn't afford
even the pretense of feigned interest. After the third piece of chalk
was thrown at me, I again grinned as I floated through the laughter of
the boys and girls of my classroom.
Staying
after school to bat the chalkboard erasers together was where I had my
next grand idea! “Batting” is what we called it when you'd have to stay
after to smack erasers together, so as to clean them. The clouds of
chalk reminded me that on foggy days, Ashlyn would skip school, and go
play in the grassy fields near the ocean. I decided I'd stage an
accidental meeting, and spend my day with her. A great foreshadow of the
things to come was the fight my father and I had when I told him where
it was I was going.

“The
Bramblewood?” my father yelled, still sobered; a great occasion seeing
as it was already ten past eight in the morning. “Yeah, I'm just going
for a walk, school is out today, on account of the fog,” I replied,
unused to seeing my father really care much for anything. Years of
alcohol abuse took its toll on my father, and I was particularly fit for
my age. Stumbling over to me, my father gripped a handful of my shirt,
and pulled me in close. Looking me directly in the eye, he said “you
stay the hell away from that place, do you hear me, boy?” Putting my
hands on his shoulders, I wrenched his arms away, and set him down onto a
wooden chair on our porch.
I
understand now it wasn't my fault that things turned out the way they
did, but for many years I blamed myself for this conversation this day.
Perhaps it was the foreign scent of sobriety on his breath, or the
strange questioning that sounded an awful lot like care to a kid who
never said more than a handful of words to his father. Regardless, for
whatever reason, I told my father the truth of what I had planned. As I
finished, my father's attention flickered in and out for awhile, until
he finally looked up at me, and told me again to not walk near The
Bramblewood. I did, and would regret telling him my plans for years. I
was a stupid fucking kid, thinking I could rekindle a relationship with
my father, but much like his status as a parent, his mind was long since
gone. The Bramblewood held secrets much darker than its shade, secrets I
wouldn't learn until it was too late.

It
had been a few days since that Wednesday, that wonderful day that my
nose broke, and my heart grew. I can't recall which day of the week it
was, but when telling friends, I always say Monday. So it was a Monday,
and a thick sheet of fog blanketed the town. You may think with even
such low visibility, it would be easy to slip out of town unnoticed, but
you've obviously never lived in a small town. Everybody knows
everybody, and you couldn't hide a cough in my town without tales of
your deathly illness reaching every door before you even got home. If
Mr. Peterson the baker, for example, would have walked out of his front
door only seconds earlier, he would have noticed me walking towards the
ocean in the east, when our school was found on the west. Small-town
minds devour gossip, and honestly, to this day I find myself hard
pressed to blame them. When nothing exciting happens around you, you
fabricate. Hell, that was one of the reasons I think I came to love
Ashlyn, her quality of day dreaming at all hours.

Regardless, Mr. Peterson would have told Miss Karen – the widower –
of what he saw. Perhaps he would add his own spin on it. “I saw the
Showalter boy-”. “Henry?” Miss Karen would chime in. “Yes, Henry, I saw
him sneaking around town, trying to avoid notice, seemingly up to no
good,” he'd say. As Miss Karen made her way to pick up groceries, she'd
stop by the barbershop to say hello to Sal. Sal was the only remaining
member of the town that was in class with her. The rest had moved on,
from the town or otherwise. Sal loved Miss Karen, but would never talk
about it. This made him her choice of catalyst for an especially juicy
piece of gossip.
Eventually,
rumors would be dropping alongside locks of hair, as old Jack Parker
the milk man paid for his trim, and continued about his day. He would
tell everyone on his route the news of how Henry was lurking around town
with a wicker basket. Mildred Blass, the pastor's wife would pick up
the news alongside her milk, and tell the women of her Knitting Circle.
She'd talk of how the Showalter boy was seen with a shovel, and a black
eye trudging about town. The Arbor boys would pluck it up with a handful
of sweets from the window behind the high-backed chairs of the Knitting
Circle, and they'd run home and tell their siblings. The Arbor family
had nearly 9 children, everyone of them with a sweet-tooth for hearsay.
They'd talk about how Henry and a Native American girl were running
through town together.
This snowball would roll all over town, picking up bits and pieces
along the way. "Oh, he had alcohol on his breath, and bloodshot eyes.
Just like his father, that no good Harry Showalter!" "I feel sorry for
the boy, losing his mother and all. But that's no reason to be picking
fights in the street." "I saw that Henry carrying a knife, and talking
about killing a man!". It would snowball, and pick up all sorts of
fantastical nonsense before finally ending up at door to the school.
Miss Margaret was no fool, and after she whopped me all across town,
she'd march me right up to the door of every house in town, and have me
apologize for whatever transgressions I had supposedly committed. She
knew I was innocent, “but it's for the peace of the town, not you,"
she'd say. I'd have to spend weeks under the watchful eye of the entire
town, vulture eyes, hungrily awaiting what trouble I next manage to get
myself into. Or at least until someone else managed to find themselves
the center of new rumors. Either way, I'd never get to talk to Ashlyn if
that happened.
Very
carefully, I managed to slip out of town without running into anyone,
and shot down the old dirt road that lead to The Bramblewood. The wood,
although truly a forest in fact, was a seldom visited location for the
folks of Carthage Falls. Every now and then, a young woman would get
lost in the woods, and her body wouldn't wash up ashore for days. This
lead to all manner of folk tales, ranging from ghosts that haunted the
trees, all the way to a witch that lived deep inside the woods. We were
all taught the stories when we were young, and the majority of children
took them to heart. There was a game the boys used to play during summer
that was a combination of bravery and running speed. If you couldn't
ignore the sneers and taunts of the children around you, the point of
the game was to run to the wood, and smack the base of a specific tree.
The Hearth Trunk we'd call it, the largest tree on the outskirts of the
forest. Undaunted, I was the only child to walk past the tree, beaming
with pride at the look of horror on their faces. The whipping I received
when I returned home to Father O'Leary sitting on my porch, telling my
father what my group of friends told him I did would wipe that smile
right off of my face.
I
stared at the forest for a moment, petrified with fear. Not of
something as silly as ghosts or goblins, mind you. The much more real
fear of talking to a woman. What was I to say, what was I to do? My legs
chattered to each other as I worked on finding the courage, when
suddenly a flickering caught my eye. A red ribbon lay wrapped around a
branch a few feet past the border of trees. Knowing it had to be hers, I
decided to take the risk, and started off. Sweaty hand gripping for
life to the handle of a small basket full of apples and sandwiches, I
made my way through the trees towards the small field I assumed she
would be playing in. A good fifteen or so minutes passed before I came
into the clearing, and stood frozen in place once I did.
There
she was, my Ashlyn, standing in the middle of the field. A small
rivulet ran through the clearing, eventually emptying itself into the
Atlantic Ocean. A small wash-out sat near the middle of the field, and
the carcass of an old fallen tree draped itself over the stream. A
great, hulking mass of a tree, that was surely a reminder of hundreds of
ruined homes that were vacated when it fell. Ashlyn stood on the log,
dancing across its entirety, leaning over to smell the wild lily that
grew alongside the bank. To this day, I do not believe it was the sight
of her perched upon this log that froze me, but the voice that came from
her. A beautiful voice pitched joyfully through the blankets of fog
that were now laying low in the field. It was a silly song that I knew
to be an original.

"Here sparrow, here lark, join me on the log.
The air is cool, the water's fine, go on and ask the frogs.
I see you fog, I see you fog, sneaking onto the tree.
Quit being greedy, little lily, and let your dew fly free!"

She
sung to the birds, as she whistled and threw her arms into the air.
Turning on the balls of her feet, and crouching down, she spoke in a low
voice, and sang to the frogs laying under the cover of various plants
in the stream. Dancing across the log, she kicked playfully towards
tufts of fog, laughing in rhythm, and lightly smacked the the lilies,
sending a shower of condensation into the air. The laughter abruptly
ended as she slipped on the wet log, and fell into the stream. I
understand, especially after what happened at school just a week prior,
how much it must have both angered and frightened her to see me on the
edge of the field fall down laughing.
Picking
up a sizable branch from the ground, she stormed across the field,
brandishing it like a baseball bat. “You leave me alone, Henry
Showalter!” she yelled, face strained in anger. I wish I wasn't such a
damned fool, I never even looked at her face to see how serious she was.
I was too preoccupied with kicking my feet and laughing. You see, I
wasn't laughing at her in insult, I merely found what had happened to be
so wonderful, and I couldn't keep the laughter inside. My heart was
swollen, and I had to let it out. A wrist-sized branch catching me
across the shoulders certainly set me right though. Everything came
rushing back as I looked up and saw the look of terror in her eyes,
tears just on the brink of flooding out.
“What
do you want from me, Henry!” she yelled, starting to cry a little. “Why
won't you just leave me alone?” I tried to roll myself up to tell her,
but she caught me on the leg, making me grip it and roll in the moist
dirt. Eying my basket, she started to lift the lid with her branch;
“What do you have in there, Henry? Something to throw at me? Something
to humiliate me with?” I shook my head no, but as she opened it in entirety,
she looked at the contents with absolute bewilderment on her face.
“It's lunch,” I managed to say. “I wanted to bring you lunch, to
apologize for yesterday.” Again, those suspicious eyes fell on me, and
she lowered her branch only a hair before speaking up. “I don't know
what you're up to, but you leave me alone, you hear?” she said. With
that, she turned, and ran from the field, leaving me rubbing my leg to
try and alleviate the pain. I hammered my fist into the dirt, tossing
out my collection of swears, perhaps the only things my father had taught me in the years following my mother's passing.
I've often heard the cliché “third times the charm,” and it leaves
me wondering if any serious scholarly research has gone into it. I say
this, because I have yet to see a third attempt do me wrong in this
life. Even if I don't initially see it as such. A week had passed, and
speaking to Ashlyn was harder than ever. She would run away whenever I
was near, and never met my eyes when I tried to get her attention. Many
years later, I came to realize that she was just shocked that someone
was paying attention to her. She had absolutely no idea what to make of
it, or how to act. Oh, Ashlyn, I'm sorry this world was so cruel to you.
Summer break was
only a few days away, and I knew I had to do something before we left
school. She never came into town otherwise, and going to her would never
work out. Whereas my father was just insulting, and emotionally vacant,
Ashlyn's father was physically abusive; a great brute who lived on the
outskirts of town, long since having been driven out by the people of
Carthage Falls.
The school day crawled on by, every second feeling as though being
dragged through resin. We were finally given a break to run around
outside before I approached Ashlyn. In the books, the hero always
presented a rose to the damsel, but our southern heat never meshed well
with the delicate nature of many roses.
So many aspects of
school were different back then, - and I assume will continue to change
for every few years that pass - but the promise of a summer break has
continued its tradition of turning perfectly reasonable children into
anxious bundles of wandering thoughts and fidgets; another thing I
assume, and hope will never fade from the hearts of children. That's
where we were, with only a few weeks until our break, and not a single
student could hold still. It took - and I assume still takes - an
impressive amount of patience to lead a class that spends more time with
their eyes facing the windows than the chalkboard. It is in my
experience that I say, with full conviction, it is not the teacher who
is hard as stone that is the necessarily the best. On the contrary, I
believe it to be those teachers who are flexible like grass dancing with
the wind that stay with us our entire lives.
The average kid had plenty on their minds, they were thinking of
jumping into old farmer Warren's – or “worm” as we all called him –
swimming hole after a long day of sports, and wrestling, and racing
through town. They were thinking of building forts out of driftwood on
the beach, and hosting large camp-outs where we would tell ghost
stories, trying to scare each-other. Simon Green, the grocers boy, would
always tell the best ones, although I never counted myself among the
weeping boys that would soon run damage control by complaining about the
ashes of the fire that blew into their eyes, making them water.
Well, that's how previous years had played out, anyway. It was a
grand mistake that I thought myself the only one that saw women, and
thought them to be more interesting than stickball, or going on silly
adventures. We were sixteen, and this was going to be the summer of love
for our class. Holding hands, and trading kisses where no one could see
would infect all the kids of our small town, and I'm only mildly
embarrassed to say that I too would spend seemingly all of my free time
pursuing these nerve-wracking, but wonderful encounters with Ashlyn. For
myself though, this would be a summer of uphill battles.
Growing on the side of the school, a bland bunch of wild Daisy grew
in sad patches along the wall. Snatching a fistful of the pathetic
flowers, I stormed towards the corner of the school yard where Ashlyn
normally sat by herself. Using my free hand to rake fingers through my
shaggy hair, I thought through hundreds of scenarios of what I would
say, of how to counter any misdirection thrown by Ashlyn. It's a
spectacular disaster, over-thinking that is.
I must have gone through thousands of possibilities by the time I
reached speaking distance with Ashlyn, trying so hard to make sure
everything was just right. Since my youth, I've come to accept that life
does not carry itself in visible calculations. It is a tidal wave
tearing through a calm pond. It is a rogue gust of wind that turns a
still field of dandelions into pandemonium. It is a sudden storm that
ruins the sunny day, and the unexpected warm day in the middle of
winter. It's a great many wonderful and awful things that I'm sure I'll
never come to fully understand, but there is one thing I'm certain of.
I'm certain that it rarely goes according to plan. Or perhaps just not
according to yours. This day did not necessarily go according to my
plan.
Turning the
corner, I saw Ashlyn, and suddenly all of my rehearsed lines melted
away. I still cannot tell if this made me happy, or infuriated. I
honestly can't remember what I was thinking during the bulk of these
early encounters with her at all. It is by this, that I use to remind
myself that it truly was love; young love, at that. It is a blossoming
sting, the most potent of all emotions, and if I can't recall what it
was that I was thinking during these moments, I can still remember how
it is that I felt. I remember it because somewhere inside me, I've been
looking for those feelings again my entire life, but along with the
years, they are quickly fleeting.
It felt as though I was floating toward Ashlyn as I bridged the cap
between us, and hastily tucked the arm holding the flowers behind my
back. In the stories we read growing up, the hero would always surprise
the princess somehow, and she would fall even deeper in love with him.
Stories are charming, because they play out through calculations. The
tidal wave, the rogue wind, the dreary and the sunny days, they only
appear if the writer wants them to. Real life is often lacking in that
intimacy.
“Ashlyn!” I
half-yelled, my face flushing a deep scarlet. “Don't go,” I said – much
more controlled this time – “I have a present for you”. Once again,
those eyes squinted at me in suspicion. I'm sure it can be easily
explained that the stampeding hormones in my body, mixed with the way
the light was hitting them did it, but honestly, at that exact moment,
her eyes were the most wonderful things I had ever seen. The look on her
face told me I had just said so out loud, and my poor knees finally
lost the good fight.
Although with quite some reluctance, Ashlyn crept towards me, and just
far enough away to bolt if I moved towards her, asked if I were alright.
Pulling myself together, I thrust the flowers towards her, and managed
to bark “these are for you!” followed by turning my increasingly warm
face away from her. The look of bewilderment on her face reminded me
that I am no hero. Just Henry Showalter, a boy who did stupid things on
occasion; although let the records show, significantly more often after
seeing Ashlyn.
It was
not necessarily the pain that had me yelp, but rather the surprise of
being kicked by such a small foot; a foot made for dancing across fields
of fog, not for swinging with intent at someone. “You fool! Look what
you did to these poor flowers!” she yelled. “Already, their petals wilt,
and wither away!” Staring at her while rubbing my shin, I tried to
apologize, but she spoke right over me. “I don't know what happened to
make you change, Henry. You've never picked on my before. Hell, you
hardly ever even acknowledged me. Why do you choose to pester me now?”
she said, tears welling up underneath her eyes. What happened next, I
would – and still do – consider to be the bravest thing I've ever done.
“You're beautiful!” I shouted, quickly drawing the eyes, and
subsequent pointing fingers of the now gossiping children on the other
side of the yard. By the look on her face, I was legitimately worried
that someone had snuck up from behind and slipped something cold down
the back of her shirt. Her bulging eyes – no less beautiful than any
other time – stared at me for awhile before finally muttering a single
word. “What?”
“You're
beautiful, Ashlyn,” I repeated, this time looking her in the eyes.
Taking a step back, she said “Oh,” before turning and running, dropping
the flowers onto the dusty school yard. “It's all over,” I thought to
myself. I'd take any ridicule that came my way, but how could I
embarrass her so? Dusting myself off, I walked back into the school for
our final lesson of the day. I walked, looking defeated, which was
fitting in that I truly felt as though I were.

Again, I had to sit through a class by Mr. Lutz, and I felt
moderately bad that I would again be retaining nothing of what he said.
My mind was spread out too thin, working on a hundred different problems
at the moment. You'd think I would have learned my lesson on
over-thinking, but I of course did not. I'm sure the general consensus
is to blame my gender, I'm sure the sympathetic vote lies with the lack
of a positive father-figure. I wouldn't argue either of those, honestly,
but I personally believe those to both be products of over-thinking, an
idea that in of itself makes me laugh. I think that like most things,
the easiest answer is the simplest. I think if an idea is worth it, you
won't learn it instantly. This must be so, seeing as how I still
struggle with it to this day, so many years later than the events of
these papers.
It was
time to head home, and I wasn't surprised to learn that Ashlyn never
made it to her final class. I, Henry Showalter, had finally done it. I
had embarrassed Ashlyn to the point where she skipped out on school. If I
were one of those knights, and this were a story, I'd have my armor on
backwards, and would have forgotten my sword and shield at home. I made
the trudge home, completely aware of all the furtive glances, and smiles
unsuccessfully hidden behind hands. The people of this damned town have
ridiculous needs, and I frequently found myself to be the supplier. I
sometimes would imagine my affairs being colored red, and afterwords,
the townsfolk would look like circus clowns. This little trick didn't
cheer me up today, but then again, I didn't really think anything would.
Finally arriving at my house, I reached for the door, but did not
enter. For a few minutes, I just sat, my body lazily slumped against the
solid oak. I thought that if I entered my house at this moment, there
was a chance that I may never come out again. My angsty young heart just
wasn't strong enough to let things go on as they were. I decided that
before I went inside, I would figure out some way to make things right.
Perhaps I wouldn't win Ashlyn's affections, but I couldn't have her
hating me; Lord, anything but that.
Peeling myself away from the door, I started to pace back and forth
on my porch. It wasn't until I heard my father stumbling back in from
whatever trouble he had caused for the evening that I realized how time
had slipped away from me. The sun had been down for hours now, and I
realized I hadn't gained a single inch on the situation. I had spent
almost half a day, essentially doing nothing, and I wasn't sure which
emotion would win. Would I allow frustration to flare up, or would I
slip deep into a depression?
Turning to me, my father lifted his head, and looked at me through
his glazed eyes. “Whatever it is son, just give it up,” he said with
slurred speech. “You're a Showalter. We never win. Give it up,” and with
that, he roughly pushed the door open, and fell onto the living room
floor. It's a testament of how upset I was that I actually listened to
advise from that devil.
I walked past him, and headed for my room, looking forward to finally
laying down. All hope was gone, and I was alone again. I thought to
myself about how my mother would know exactly what to do, and the weight
of the day finally fell on me. I cried for the first time in many
years, huddled into a small ball on my bed. I cried, like a child, and
didn't stop until I fell asleep. I miss her so much, I often wonder how
bright my future would have been if her light wasn't put out so
prematurely. I was wading in the ocean at the darkest hour of night, and
I thought rescue would never come. I was going to drown, and I wasn't
going to kick my legs anymore.

Please understand that this night was just the culmination of many
years of frustration. It wasn't that Ashlyn ran from me, for example,
that had me a sniveling mess of melodrama. It wasn't necessarily that I
resented my father passed out on the floor, and it wasn't even that I
missed my mother, although that one was probably the largest factor. It
was simply that everything that could go wrong, went wrong, all at the
wrong time. I remember my mother telling me once “when it rains, it
pours,” and this is another cliché I wonder if scholarly research has
given time towards.
Although I thought my life was over, waking up made me realize perhaps
one of the only things my mother's passing gave me. I was considerably
stronger than I thought possible. I felt ashamed that I wasted an
evening's sleep crying to myself, but I didn't dwell on it. My feelings
for Ashlyn were the same, but I knew that things were over, so I decided
I would quit. I wouldn't embarrass her anymore, and I would focus on
finishing school, and moving as far the hell away from this place as I
could.
My weekend was
spent at Gregor Phillip's place, splitting logs for extra cash. He ran a
lumber business, and before I came to experience the world, and just
how vast it was, I used to think his operation to be the largest trade
in the world. He sent out lumber to as far as five towns away, and was
considered to be perhaps the wealthiest man in town. Although he was
rough round the edges, I considered him to be the closest thing to a
role model I had.
If
you had something bad to say about a man, chances were it could be
applied to Gregor. He was rude, and he was crass. He spit often, and
bullied when he couldn't get his way. He swore more often than not, and
there was even a rumor with the town women that he occasionally visited a
brothel over in Atticus, a larger town about half a day's walk away, or
a few hours if you owned an automobile. Outside of Gregor, only a few
in town had access to one of those conveniences. He was a great many
other number of descriptive terms too, but he was also an excellent
business man, and strong as an ox. I was lucky that my father never
found the money I was saving up for when I finally ran away from this
place. Mr. Green the grocer would have lost his entire stock of liquor.
Working at Gregor's was one of the most important events
of my young life for a great many reasons. While of course a strong role
model, and a source of income were important, it was the smaller things
that really helped me out along the way. I rarely ever had the
opportunity to be alone; a drunkard father and a gossiping town saw to
that. To this day though, I find myself frustrated at people who can't
spend five minutes alone with themselves. While I would never encourage a
lifestyle of it, just a few hours of tranquility gives you a fresh
perspective on problems you may otherwise have difficulty solving. It
also should be said that loneliness itself can teach you so much of who
you are, but it is a gamble. Spend too much time alone, and you may
become addicted. Self-pity is so easy, so tempting; I'm sure it has
ruined the plans of many great thinkers throughout history. Life is much
too large to spend by yourself.

Sometimes when I
speak to myself, I know the voices I hear don't belong to me. That
hoarse voice in the back of my head that offhandedly tells me to give up
when I find myself in a difficult situation; I know that to be my
father's voice. When I'm sad, and just want someone to embrace me, and
tell me everything is going to be alright, it's Gregor's voice that
tells me to straighten my back, and stop moping. When I just want to
walk to the hill over on Parker's field, and fall asleep counting the
stars, I can hear a calming voice coo to me that I'm going to catch cold
if I don't go inside. I know that voice to be my mother's. Whenever I
did something that seemed to be in mischievous fun, I could hear the
nagging tone of Miss Margaret getting ready to flare up behind me.
So many different opinions, so many voices going through my head,
burying my own under an avalanche. Don't get me wrong, I have
pigheadedly pursued problems long since I should have given up, and I
have acted like a sniveling boy, one who is old enough to act like a
man, often enough. Even though I don't think I’ll ever stop, I know that
I've spent too much time sleeping under the stars for my own good, and
it goes without saying that I have spent far too much time dabbling in
mischief. Good advise is always good advise, and wisdom from the mouth
of fools is no less wise. Sometimes a man just needs to listen to his
own voice, though.
It is through this mindset
that I believe there to be great peace found in monotonous work. It's a
sort of mindless distraction from all outside influence, but still an
act of productivity. Just my axe, the various bodies of unlucky trees,
and my own voice floating casually through my head. Nothing else could
bother me during those hours, at least until Gregor came and would tell
me to go home, and I'd finally see that the sun had almost reached the
horizon.
Working also gave me the opportunity to
grow physically, to shape my body much in the same way I had been
shaping my mind. My mind would start to grow as sharp as the edge of my
axe, my body as solid as its handle. My goals as precise as my swing,
and my problems started to seem more and more like trees that could be
removed with the right tools. A sound mind, body, and soul were the
tools I needed for my problems, and I was crafting all three.
There was another small lesson I was learning from all this time
working at Gregor's that I'd like to mention. It was Sunday, and I was
heading home early so as to get enough sleep for school. As I walked
down the road, the early summer sunlight warm on my back, those thoughts
of Ashlyn came crawling back into my head. Dare I try talking to her
again? Could I salvage anything from the disaster I made on the
schoolyard last week? The final lesson I recall learning from Gregor's
that weekend is that you can't run from every problem. Some problems are
trees that need to be cut, but some problems are trees that you need to
grow. I had been learning how to finish, and completely ignoring how to
start.
Thoughts of Ashlyn fluttered around my
head until I finally found myself at the stairs to my home. The entire
walk, I had been mostly looking at the ground, too deep in thought to
pay attention to my whereabouts. I knew my way to and from Gregor's
without any problem, so I never really needed to pay attention. Deep in
thought, and muscle memory taking me straight home, I wasn't even aware
that the sun had finally dipped below the horizon some time ago. It
wasn't until I grabbed the handle of the door that I was abruptly torn
from my thoughts. The back of a chair was sticking out through a now
broken window and I heard the roar of my father tearing through our
house. I closed my eyes, and wondered what I should do; run away for the
night, or walk inside and stop my father from destroying our house?
Hearing Gregor's voice in my head this time, I took a deep breath, and
walked into my home.

As I walked in, I
was caught off guard at how wrecked my house had become. Overturned
tables, and broken glass lie everywhere. So much was happening all at
once, it took me a moment to realize that there was a path leading to my
bedroom, where I could hear my father inside, swearing and breaking
something wooden. When I peeked my head inside, something started to
heat inside of me; my face red, my blood boiling, my body felt on fire.
My father was tearing my room apart.
Ripping
books from their shelves, and swearing loudly to himself, my father was
covered in mud and wore his usual cologne of bourbon and sweat. I took a
step inside the room, and thought as quickly as I could on what to say
or do. I was large enough to easily manhandle him, but I know how much
stronger kind words can be. I took another step towards him, and stepped
on a small piece of splintered wood. White noise flooded my ears, and
nothing else seemed to matter for that moment as I bent down to examine
what I had kicked.
A small, wooden rocking horse
lie smashed in half on the floor, a dent in the wall from where it was
thrown can be seen over my left shoulder. Looking up at me, my father
was throwing his hands wildly, casting shadows along the wall by the
flickering candlelight he had on the window-ledge. As the initial anger
melted away, I could pick out some of what he had been saying. “Where
the hell ish all that money at, boy! I know Gregor is paying you. Where
is that money!” he yells at me, his words slurring.

I've told you before that I was lucky enough to still hold many
memories of my mother, and I can remember the day my parents brought me
home that rocking horse. My father was taking a business trip to the
next town over, and my young adventure's spirit yearned to go with him. I
remember how I sobbed, and begged my mother to let me go, but she just
laughed to herself, and kept running her fingers through my hair. I
thought she was so cruel back then, to laugh at me so! I know now why
she did it, though. At the time, all I knew was that it was my birthday,
and my father wasn't going to be around to celebrate with me. Oh, how I
cried that day.
I cried myself to sleep, and
can remember being gingerly awoken sometime that night. “Happy birthday,
son,” my mother said. I frowned at her, and rolled to face away from
her, getting ready to start up my crying yet again. She started to sing
a song for me, and although it stopped me from crying, it didn't fix
anything else. It was just a song after-all, What good could a song do? I
wouldn't know it then, but in the year to come, I'd remember this song;
every single word, and I'd always regret not being able to hear more of
them.
I thought on this until I heard something
else that wiped all of those thoughts out of my head. It was a man's
voice singing along, my father's voice. My father, you see, was always
distant when I was young. As I look back now, I realize my mother was
right, it was this town that changed him so. That short trip to the next
town over made him smile for a night, and it was one of the best
moments of my life. My mother was alive, and my father was kind. It is a
shining memory in my head that glows brighter as the years go by, even
as other memories start to fade and disappear.
My
father pulled a box out from behind him - a great white behemoth,
covered in red ribbon! Wiping the tears away from my eyes, my mother
started that great, melodious laugh of hers. I stared in awe as my
father, still smiling, rustled the hair on my head, and said “well what
are you waiting for, son? Go on, open it!”
I was
caught off guard, you see, because of my father's actions. Not only was
he smiling – which was a rarity in of itself – but he was smiling at me.
Which of the two are a greater present to a young child?
Snapping out it, I turned towards the box, and heard my parent's
laughter turn into the sounds of wind and animal calls of some unknown
African prairie. My body, it seemed, grew bold stripes, and my teeth and
fingernails grew longer. That poor box grew legs, and strange spiraled
horns. I was like a tiger from the books I’d read, and hunted that poor
deer-like box. Tearing it to shreds, I finally gave it one last swipe,
and reached in to claim my reward! A small wooden toy, looked up at me,
as though specifically created to be played with by my hands, to be
watched by my eyes alone. It was the most wonderful thing I had ever
seen.

I've had that rocking horse all
these years, and it's always been a part of my life that helps me live
with the creature my father had become. Whenever I wanted to smash his
face in, I always remembered the smile he gave me when I pulled that
wooden horse from that box, and I'd slowly start to forgive him.
Whenever I missed my mother, I would look across the room at that silly
horse, and I would hear her laughter. That rocking horse was a silent
witness to the awful thing my father had become over the years, and was
the only one around to comfort me when mother passed. Something inside
of me snapped along with that wooden horse, and I could no longer hear
the words my father was saying.
He stumbled over
to me, and kicked the horse out of my hands, and grabbed me by the
shirt. “Quit staring at the floor like that, you dumb ass. Where's that
money at?” he hollered. That was when I first hit him. I caught him in
the nose first, and heard the snap of cartilage breaking from my
knuckles. I next struck him near the eye, and as I pulled my fist away, I
could almost see the bruise that was going to grow in all black and
blue there. I picked up a small plank of wood torn from my wall, and
swung it across his back as he huddled away from me, trying to hold the
blood from his nose in. He fell shortly after the crack of breaking
wood, and looked up me with such a look of terror.
I knew in that moment what he was afraid of. He had seen a look on my
face, and although I had no mirror on me, I knew exactly what kind of
face I was wearing. It was the same look that he often had after my
mother had passed, the same look he had as I scrambled from my window,
and easily outran him as a young child. I could almost hear my mother's
voice in my head now. “Oh son... what have you done?” she seemed to say.
Gregor's came in shortly after hers, saying “think this is what it
means to be a man? Think because you struck a drunk that you're all
grown up now?”
I reached for my father, to try
and comfort him, but he shied away, and started to shout at me. His eyes
were wild, and he started to flail on the floor, kicking towards me,
screaming for me to get out of his house. His face and hands were
covered in blood. He smacked himself up alongside the wall near my
window, and sent the candle resting on its sill sailing outside. A full
moon lit up my room, hiding all the wreckage my father had made, only
showing his face glowing faintly blue with the moonlight. Standing up,
my face now mimicking the look of horror on his, I stepped out of my
bedroom, and ran until I reached the town.

Pounding my fists on a wooden door, a woman in a white nightgown opened
the door, holding a small candle. Miss Margaret glared at me, and
started to say “Henry? Do you know what time it is? What exactly do you
think-” until she realized the look on my face. The anger flushed from
her face, and concern grew in its place. She set the candle down on a
nearby table, and placed her hands on my shoulders. “What have you
done?” she said, lightly shaking me. That's when the siren went off.

The only truck owned by our town was purchased a few years back, and
was quite impressively modified to carry a large quantity of water in
the back by a fella over in Atticus. Nicolaus Wawrzynski was a heavy-set
balding man, who always seemed to be sweating. He was the mayor, and he
was driving the vehicle across town as another man sat in the
passengers seat, cranking a siren. Men were starting to pour from their
houses with buckets, and were chasing after the truck.

Miss Margaret looked me in the eyes, and didn't say anything for
awhile. She saw the swollen knuckles on my right hand, and looked at the
broken plank of wood in my hand. I honestly had no idea I was still
carrying the damned thing. “Get out of here, Henry. Go run into the
woods until all of this blows over. I can fix this,” she said. Miss
Margaret's children had long-since grown up and moved on, and her
husband passed away some years ago. I never knew why she stayed in this
town, but I believe now that it was because the voices she heard when
she tried to think.
My voices were from the
adults I had grown up with, and likewise, I think Miss Margaret's were
as well. Seeing as how she was nearing 50 years old, I now think that
the bulk of voices she heard must be from people who have long since
passed on. At this moment in my life, I started to understand that we
are much more than just bodies. We can be carried on in word, and song,
and picture. We can be carried on in memory, and in lessons.
To be human is so vast, and complex, I don't think we'll ever fully
understand what it means to live, but I hope we never give up on trying.
We place living into the category of worldly gains, and judge dying off
of a hole in the ground. We're taught all our lives that the world
isn't so opaque, why should the beginning and end be any simpler? I
don't mean to say that there is necessarily an after life, or anything
of religious nature. I'm not here to preach, I just mean to say that
there is so much we don't know, and we should always be feeding that
curiosity to the point of overindulgence.
I
think one of those voices Miss Margaret heard kept telling her that this
town needed her, and that she couldn't leave. As I explain this, I
assume most would agree that the voice must have belonged to a great
human being, one who believed in right and wrong and the selfless
pursuit of helping others. I personally just think that person must have
been a great fool. This town needed Mrs. Margaret alright, but Mrs.
Margaret didn't need this town. I'm appreciative, because there are good
people in this town, and I myself probably wouldn't be here writing
this if it wasn't for the help of Miss Margaret. I'm just glad that she
was able to get away from here, eventually.
Turning back to me, she said “Go, Henry! Go hide out for the night, come
back in a few days.” and stopped herself with a look of consternation.
“Hold on, Take this with you,” she said, and disappeared from the door
frame. She came back in a few minutes holding a cloth sack tied up.
“It's some food and water, and the sack is an old blanket. Now go!” and
gave me a small shove, and then slammed the door in my face. I still
can't tell you if Miss Margaret liked me or not, but I do think that
somewhere in that woman burned a protective motherly love for all
children; particularly those – much like myself – with wayward souls.
Love by proxy is better than nothing at all.

With everyone in town running frantically to help put out the fire –
although I assume most people showed up simply because there is always
gossip and rumors to be found at these gatherings – it was quite easy to
sneak out of town. I still can't decide if it was human nature, or the
small part of me that grew up here, but I was tempted to ask people
running whose house or barn was on fire. I thankfully decided against
it, and made my way across the outskirts of town until I found myself on
the dirt path that lead to the ocean. Walking for awhile, I had time to
calm down, and start thinking things through without my mind running
faster than my legs. I'm thankful this all happened during the warm
months. “Focus on the good things,” my mother used to tell me. Things
could always be worse, after all.
I had come to
terms with what happened with my father, and knew that despite the very
nature of the townsfolk, nobody would particularly blame me for hurting
my father. He didn't really have any friends, and I've heard many
whispers from people, wondering about how I've managed to deal with him
this long. I Suppose I should thank him for teaching me patience one
day, although I probably could never say it outright. My mind was now
back to Ashlyn, but specifically on how to make it a clean break.
Chopping trees down at Gregor's, I learned that going about the job
swinging wildly always took more effort, and brought a dangerous fall.
Relationships with people could benefit likewise from that. Plan
carefully, keep yourself focused, and then swing. I needed to smooth
things over, apologize for embarrassing her, and promise that I would
leave her alone from now on. Perhaps if I could pull that off, she
wouldn't come to hate me.
As I walked down that
dirt path, getting enough of that beautiful moonlight to keep on track, I
thought about how things went down that day on the schoolyard. How I
had given her that handful of flowers, and how angry she looked at me
for it. I didn't realize that by snapping those flowers off, I had
essentially killed them. They had perhaps months of beauty left, and I
traded those in for a few days of a selfish gesture. I thought about how
she would feel if she learned I chopped down trees with Gregor, and
found myself laughing. It grew louder, and louder, until tears started
to well up in my eyes. I couldn't necessarily tell you why I was
laughing so hard, but it just felt right, and so I did it. In between
bouts of laughter, I bent down and snatched up the occasional acorn as I
made my way to the ocean. What I planned to do with them, I really
didn't know at the time. It just felt right, and so I did it.
I walked until I saw the ocean, and stopped myself. Looking over to
the Bramblewood, I felt the acorns in my pocket, and suddenly everything
clicked. I destroyed trees all day, why shouldn't I plant them all
night? I stepped off my initial path, and walked towards the forest,
knowing I'd find something of myself that desperately needed knowing
there. For all the things I thank Ashlyn for, an appreciation of nature
is one of the greatest in my eyes. There is something so majestic about
listening to the orchestra of a forest, hearing all the individual
rustles, and yelps, and chirps. The same can be said of its nocturne, if
you are able to keep your mind at rest, and not create phantom dangers.
A forest at night is incredibly dangerous; I do not mean to lead any
of you astray in that regard. The fears, however, are predictable.
Running could cause you to trip and break your ankle. You could poke out
your eye, or fall into some miscellaneous hole dug by animals, or
created from erosion. The call of a wolf, or any other fearsome creature
could be dangerous as well, but most southern people know that those
creatures tend to shy away from villages full of people. I accepted
these dangers, and tread carefully through the forest, and was rewarded
with such a beautiful sound. Crickets set the stage for owls to begin
their strange hoots, followed by the shrieks of small rodents being
snatched up by those not singing. I could hear the fox cry out
triumphantly, as the rabbit shrilled his final note. Wind blew through
the trees, smacking each leaf like the ivory key of a piano. I walked
carefully through the forest, enjoying the song, until I came upon that
clearing I so recently embarrassed myself in front of Ashlyn at.

The clearing was stunning by moonlight; flowers I hadn't noticed the
last time stretched themselves up to reach for the moon. Individual
reflections of moonlight danced and gave chase to each other as the
water babbled along the stream. The night seemed to glow as I made my
way to that log laying over the stream and – taking off my shoes –
dipped my feet into its cool water as I sat on that fallen giant of an
oak. The forest didn't solve any of my problems, and I knew that I'd
eventually have to confront my father. I wasn't running from my problems
here, you see. I just finally found something else to clear my mind
outside of work. Whereas Gregor's made me think clearly, helped me to
see problems, and how to fix them, this night did the opposite. It
allowed me to stop thinking, if only for a short while. It was relaxing
to hear my own voice, without needing to swing an axe at something.
I must have sat there for quite some time, thinking over everything
that lead me to this night, and surprisingly enough, I started to cry.
Not the wretched sobbing of the previous night, where I had thought the
entire world was against me, and not the welling tears of earlier, when I
laughed at myself for the problems I seemed to walk into. I cried for a
brief while simply because I needed to, and somewhere inside I knew it
would all feel better afterwords. It felt right, and so I did it. I was
trading in all my time of complicated planning for one of acting by
instinct.
Something flickered in the corner of
my eye, and I scrubbed the tears from them quickly. A section of tall
grass grew alongside the stream, and I watched it for awhile before
giving up. It was night time after all, and I was the intruder, not the
animals. Stepping into the stream, I pulled a handful of acorns from my
pocket, and followed the water towards the edge of the clearing. “It's
about time I created something, guys, and I need you help me out with
this. You've got to promise me to grow like I hope to grow. To try your
hardest to get out of the shell you're stuck in, and reach high up into
the sky,” I said, laughing to myself.

Walking through that ankle deep water - pushing aside playful patches of
reflected moonlight – something miraculous happened. For the first time
in awhile, I wasn't thinking about stress. Ashlyn wasn't angry with me
somewhere in my head, for I had tucked her away to the far back of my
mind for the moment. I didn't think about my father's likely-to-be
broken nose, because I had blurred the memory, and set it to the side
temporarily. I didn't think about Gregor's approval, or Miss Margaret's
frown, or Mr. Lutz's chalk, or Miss Karen's rumors. I worried about
getting to the edge of the clearing, and planting these seeds, and I can
only recall a few occasions in my life where I have since felt such a
victory.
Nearing the edge of the forest, I
crouched down, and plunged my hand into the soil, raking out a few
handfuls. I had honestly never grown anything in my entire life, and so I
acted as well as I could, given my limited knowledge of the subject. As
many people undoubtedly learn in life, this is usually the wrong way.
We keep tackling problems like this, because underneath that inky cloud
of failure that looms over such activities, there is a golden fruit
tucked inside somewhere that we can only pluck out through experience.
This manifested itself as me dropping an acorn into the hole, and
ignoring the direction it was facing. I suppose I had just assumed that
plants grew up, and that was that. Flattening my hand, I pushed the dirt
back on top of the acorn like a shovel, and poised myself to stand and
walk a few feet over and start the next one.“You're doing that wrong,” a
small voice said from behind me.

It's
always fascinated me that moments of love seem to stretch on for hours,
whereas moments of terror seem to run twice as fast. Even in that
wonderful, full moonlight glow, I'm not sure which flew higher: me,
jumping nearly out of my skin, or the handful of acorns that I threw.
Either way, I shrieked when I landed, and took off running as soon as my
bare feet touched the ground. I looked over my shoulder for a second,
and that's when I saw her.
Ashlyn stood in that
field, with such a peculiar expression on her face. Here eyes were
large, staring at me as though I were the one that scared her. Her arms
were pressed against her body, one hand rising to her face, almost as if
she were embarrassed. Mud and water were climbing her dress, like she'd
been laying in the stream. A long blade of grass was stuck into her
disheveled brown hair, framing those big eyes, and showing a small pout
on her lips. I knew in an instant that she was the culprit I saw in the
patch of grass earlier. She was here tonight first, and when I walked on
through, my mind and body at ease for once, I never saw her slip from
the log, and hide in the nearest place she could find. My thought from
earlier still stood, I was the intruder, not her.
Her eyes seemed to sparkle in the moonlight, and time started to slow
down again. What appeared to be a shadow fell over her left eye, and she
looked thoughtful, as her fingertips rested on top of her lips. “Why
are you still running, you fool?” I asked myself, but it was too late
for me. I hit a fallen branch, and twisted my ankle, dropping to the
forest floor. My head bounced off of a nearby stump from a long-since
toppled tree, and the nearby darkness crept into my eyes.
When I woke up, I saw Ashlyn's face near mine, cradling my head in
her lap. Somewhere in the back of my mind, Gregor's voice started to
speak up, telling me that men don't show such weakness in front of their
loved ones. As I opened my mouth, however, I heard my mothers voice
telling me to be quiet. I blinked a few times, and looked up into
Ashlyn's eyes, and watched her mouth moving as though speaking, not
hearing the words she was saying. I stared at her face, trying
desperately to note every line, and somehow my own voice finally crawled
to the top. “Kiss her!” it yelled. “Kiss her you idiot!” “I can't,” I
thought back to the voice. “Wait, she's talking to me, isn't she?
Shouldn't I be able to hear her?” I thought.
Suddenly, time kicked back in, and I snapped out of the daze. “What did
you say?” I managed to ask Ashlyn. She frowned at me, and yelled “you
giant fool! You could have killed yourself,” and stood up. My head
dropped back onto the dirt, and I winced before I stuck the ground.
Immediately Ashlyn's face fell back into worry as she scooped me back
up. Opening my eyes, I started to mumble an apologyl, but shook my head,
and frowned right back at her. “Did you have to sneak up on me? Damn it
woman, you scared me half to death!” I hollered. Ashlyn's eyes narrowed
for a split second, and she looked at me for a moment before talking.
“Don't make me drop you again, Henry Showalter,” she spoke in a low
voice.
I'll admit that I was the first to laugh,
but it took only a matter of seconds for Ashlyn to join in. It was a
funny incident, by all means, but I thought of how it would be if I were
to read this in one of my books; the damsel standing over the knight in
distress, yelling at him for being an idiot. The damsel, dropping the
knight in a fit of anger, only to realize the additional pain she caused
him. We laughed for some time, and added our own noise to the forest
song; a rich, wonderful, joyous song. I stood up, and offered my hand to
her. After a few seconds, she accepted it, and we started to walk back
to the clearing. Although I had to favor my right foot, limping from the
strain of falling, it wasn't hurt as bad as I thought.
Looking back many years later, it was indeed a silly thought, but I
was wrong to laugh at the idea of a woman saving a man. My entire life
has been exactly that, and if a woman wants to push aside a man and slay
a dragon, she'll damn well slay a dragon. I sometimes think back on
these events in my life, and picture my mother, singing to a dragon and
putting it to sleep. I think of Miss Margaret frowning a dragon into
submission, and Ashlyn swatting at the beast with flowers it had stomped
on. If you're willing to put on armor, and fight for what's right, it
shouldn't matter what you look like underneath. The color of your skin,
your gender, or your beliefs dictate who you are, not what you can or
can't do. Prejudice is a monster everyone should wish to fight.

Walking back into the clearing, Ashlyn lead us to where I had planted
the seed, and started to dig the earth back up. I dropped onto my
knees, and tried to stop her, but she lightly smacked the top of my
hands. “I told you, you were doing it wrong,” Ashlyn said. “I put the
seed in the ground, what could I possibly have done wrong,” I argued
back. Sighing, Ashlyn pushed my hand away, and said “shut up and watch.”
It took her a little while to find the seed, seeing as how she was
digging into the dirt so gingerly, almost as if she was worried about
damaging the acorn. “It's in a hard shell, you know,” I said under my
breath, causing her to stop digging, and look me in the eyes.
“So do you, Henry Showalter, but I've seen you cry. Does that mean I
should be rough to you?” Ashlyn asked, tilting her head down and looking
at me as though explaining something to a child. “I wasn't crying,” I
tried to say, but she mumbled something, and turned back to her work.
After a few seconds, I decided to try again. “I'm not a seed, Ashlyn,
I'm a human, it's different,” I said, confidence oozing over my words.
“Oh?” Ashlyn asked, feigning surprise. “Where you born this tall, Henry?
Where you always able to carry on conversations like this? Do you plan
to stop growing? It's not impossible, mind you, I know plenty of people
that choose to stop growing,” she spoke. "Plenty of people that learn
the difference between right and wrong, but then somehow still choose to
do hurtful things. No, Henry, we're not very different from seeds at
all." I opened my mouth to try again, decided to just shut up and watch
instead. I saw a smile creep onto her face, and although every atom of
my being was screaming for me to defend myself, I could do no such
thing. I finally put a smile on Ashlyn's face, and I wasn't going to
ruin it now.
As she finally pulled the acorn out,
Ashlyn held it up in front of me, and pointed to the cap. “This cap,
this is the head of the seed. Always face this up, so as to give it the
best course,” she said. I nodded to her, and watched her start reaching
towards the hole in the ground. “Secondly, don't just toss a seed in. I
know that's the way most people think of human reproduction, but you
need to plant it with care,” she said. I blushed slightly at her talking
about such a taboo subject, and to my surprise, she did too. It was
nice to be reminded that Ashlyn was just as human as me, and I started
to relax a little.
“Thirdly,” Ashlyn said, “you
need to push the dirt on gently, so you don't hurt the poor thing.” I
started to roll my eyes, but without looking Ashlyn assumed I would blow
off the advise, and kept on talking. “If I were to bury you in food,
would you not find it difficult to find a meal, Henry?” she asked.
Reluctantly – a trend for the evening, I assume – I nodded, and let her
continue. “And finally, you need to sing to the seed, so as to wake it
up!” Up until this point, I was on the edge of my metaphorical seat,
watching Ashlyn masterfully plant a future tree with interest. Now I
looked at her with a blank face, and a flat mouth. “You must be joking,”
I said, but she didn't respond. She wore a tender smile now, completely
focused on the seed. Closing her eyes, Ashlyn placed her hand over the
dirt, and started to sing.

“It's time to wake, my little seed,
I know for sure you will succeed.
Go on now, go, you are freed!
Climb to the sky with all your speed.”

Her voice was so beautiful, I couldn't help but close my eyes, and
just enjoy. Even if the song was silly, with the forest providing the
instruments, I was completely under its spell. Finishing the song,
Ashlyn opened her eyes, and saw me smiling with my eyes closed. “Pay
attention!” she yelled, but it came out fast, and when I opened my eyes,
even in that soft blue moonlight, I knew she was embarrassed. “Your
song was lovely,” I managed to say, and it was of course the wrong move.
Ashlyn stared daggers at me, and then broke out into a particularly
wicked grin. “It's your turn now, Henry. Let's see if you were paying
attention.”
Picking up all the acorns we could
find, we walked a few feet away from the first seed, and I started to
dig my hole. Under the scrutinizing eye of Ashlyn, I did everything she
asked of me. I was gentle as I placed the acorn facing up, and pushed
dirt on top of it. Patting the ground with my hand, I stood up, and said
“alright, onto the next one.” Crouched on the balls of her feet, Ashlyn
looked up at me, and put on that mischievous grin again. It was the
same grin I wore whenever I would hatch a particularly clever plan with
Simon Greene, Todd Tilman, and the Rowd twins. I knew before she even
opened her mouth what she was going to say, but knowing did nothing to
help me out in this situation.
“Henry,” she
asked, looking up into my eyes. “You forgot to sing to it. How will it
wake up if you don't sing to it,” she asked, feigning innocence. I'm not
sure which surprised me more, if I was still in shock after hearing
Ashlyn actually speak more than a few words after so long of knowing her
as a wallflower, or at how much I genuinely wanted to sing so as to
make her smile. She was hypnotizing, and I knew I was in trouble for it.
Scratching the back of my head, I tried to think of an excuse out of
the situation, but I appeared to be trapped. “Trees have been growing
themselves for thousand of years, Ashlyn. Surely they don't need us to
sing to them,” I said. She just kept smiling at me, and I knew I would
eventually end up singing. Sighing, I crouched back down, and hovered
over the seed. “It's time to wake,” I started to sing, and stopped as a
small clump of dirt hit the side of my head. “You can't use my song!”
Ashlyn said incredulously. “You need to pick your own!” Squeezing my
eyes shut for a second, I turned towards her and exhaled deeply. “Well,
could you at least go plant some of these elsewhere?" I asked. "I don't
want you to hear me sing.". Rolling her eyes, Ashlyn snatched a few
acorns from my hands, and said “alright, I guess,” while walking away
from me. Deep down, I knew I could just lie to Ashlyn, but I was young,
and in love. I could have more easily flown in the sky than lie to her
when she had that smile on.

As I knelt
there, it suddenly dawned on me that I didn't know that many songs, to
be honest. I knew a few that I had learned from some of the boys, but I
wouldn't dare sing in front of a lady. I did know some of the songs my
mother used to sing though. I thought long and hard on the subject, and
finally decided to sing one of my mother's songs, the kind she used when
I was crying. She had been sick for awhile, and I now think this was
the last gift she gave to me. It was called “Little Henry,” and was
always my favorite.

“Dear, little Henry, don't you know I love you?
I love you so much, and you know it's true.
Strong, little Henry, there's no need to cry
Mama's here with you, you know we'll get by.
Brave, little Henry, even when we're apart,
know I’ll always be with you, deep in your heart.
Sweet, little Henry, you have me to lean on.
Even long after your Mama is gone.
I love you, Henry,”

“I love you too, mom,” I said, and never noticed Ashlyn behind me
until I heard a twig snap. Turning, I saw her staring at me, and misread
her emotions. I'd like to blame the lighting, but no stage has ever
glowed as beautifully as that clearing did. I misread Ashlyn, and turned
my head away from her slightly in anger. “You don't need to stand there
and stare,” I said. “I know my singing isn't that good, but I told you
to go away, so don't you sit there and poke fun at me,” I said, wagging
my finger at her.
“Oh Henry,” Ashlyn said, as she stepped
forward and wrapped her arms around me. The hug caught me off guard, but
that wasn't what had me so shocked. Although I had just sung that song
out loud, I wasn't embarrassed in the slightest, nor was I sad.
Strangely enough, I felt sort of happy. I think it wasn't until now that
I truly realized that my mother was always with me. Ashlyn had her face
buried in my chest, and was softly crying.
In this moment,
most of the “men” I would come to know throughout my life would have
taken advantage of this situation. A beautiful woman, clutching to your
chest, crying to herself; It's easier to blame biology than admit you're
just an opportunist. Hugging her tightly for a second, I placed my
hands on her shoulders, and squeezed lightly. “It's alright,” I said,
and for a wonder, I realized I had actually meant it. Just another
triumph to add to this night. "We've got a few more seeds to plant
still." Scrubbing her hand over her cheeks, Ashlyn's eyes narrowed in
determination, and she nodded her head in agreement.

Neither one of us were particularly tired, and it was an unspoken
agreement that neither of us wanted to go back home, so we decided to
finish the acorns together. I remember Ashlyn sang more of her silly
songs for me, and we laughed together as the time passed. Ashlyn told me
that laughter would make a tree grow strong, and this time, I decided
to shut up and believe her. It wasn't difficult, to believe in Ashlyn.
We were finally down to one seed, and as Ashlyn covered it in dirt,
she composed herself to sing, and then suddenly stopped. “Henry, would
you please sing your song again?” she asked. My face immediately
flushed, and I looked around, as if some physical excuse was just lying
in the grass for me. Turning her head away, Ashlyn smiled, and said
“it's alright if you don't want to,” and inhaled deeply to begin
singing.
I cannot begin to explain to you why it is that I
started to sing again, but perhaps if I mentioned my reward, it would
make some sense. As I sung my song, Ashlyn started to smile, and softly
bobbed her head to the rhythm. This wasn't any ordinary smile though. It
wasn't a mischievous smile, or a nervous thinning of the lips. It
wasn't the full-mouth spread of a post-laughter grin, nor was it the
soft, quiet curling of appreciation. She smiled at me, and to the best
of my descriptive abilities, I can only tell you that I knew it was for
me. Something like that changes a smile into a singular moment, frozen
in time; a memory that never fades, never ages. It was a smile
specifically for me, and I returned one specifically for her.
Finishing my song, we patted the dirt flat, and Ashlyn stood to move
away. “Ashlyn,” I called back to her. Turning around, she crouched down,
and looked at me. “You said laughter makes a tree grow strong. Why did
you ask me to sing a sad song?” I asked. Amusement bloomed on Ashlyn's
face, and she laughed softly. “You don't think sadness can make a person
strong too?” she asked. Turning, she started to stroll back to the log
over the stream, and I swore the look she gave me was intentional. Was
she referring to me with that line, or was I just over analyzing? Is
life so obtuse that only the happy can be strong? Questions like these
swarm through my head as I stood up, and chased after her, walking to
the log.

We sat on that log overlooking the small
stream, and dangled out feet into its waters. We talked for some time,
and I think I remember laughing a great deal more than I remember the
actual conversation. We swapped stories, – laughing all the while – and
only the good stories at that. Somewhere into the conversation, I
believe we both came to recognize that we were crafting a brand new
“good story”, one that we could share with each other. Lord knows we
both had our share of bad stories to tell, but they would tarnish what
we were building on that log. This continued on for some time, until my
stomach joined in the conversation.
Ashlyn held a hand up to
her mouth, peering over her fingers with that feigned innocent look, but
I could just make out the creases near her eyes. Anyone can fake a
smile, but if it is genuine, you can always see it in the eyes. My
youthful voice whipped out into my head, carrying on at great lengths as
to why I should defend myself against her poking fun at me, and how
unfair it was to laugh at something as normal as hunger. Perhaps I would
have said something, but as I looked at her, I realized something
fascinating.
I had never known Ashlyn to have a friend, and
somewhere throughout the night, I puzzled out that I might truly be her
first. I wonder how it must feel not to be the one being made fun of? To
be able to laugh at someone else's expense, without worry of
repercussion. It was not pity I felt for Ashlyn that night, - a point I
cannot stress enough - but rather a radiating sense of fondness to our
budding friendship. She wasn't picking on me as though a bully, she was
picking on me as though a friend. It's a bit humorous to me that such a
small semantic is the difference between creating and destroying worlds.
Ashlyn continued wearing her hidden smile, until her own stomach
answered back to mine. I saw her eyebrows climb up her face as her eyes
widened in horror, and had to catch myself from rolling off the log as I
laughed whole-heartedly. Ashlyn joined in, and we laughed until our
faces started to sting, which is the exact moment that a friendship is
sealed. Catching our breaths, I pictured Miss Margaret storming out of
the treeline, and lecturing me for laughing too loudly. Thinking of Miss
Margaret brought back to mind her pushing a bundle into my arms and
saying “It's some food and water, and the sack is an old blanket.”
As I stood up, Ashlyn peered towards me, and I caught the smile
leaving her eyes. “Are you leaving, Henry?” she asked nonchalantly. If
it wasn't for those eyes, I would have trusted her tone and assumed she
truly didn't care if I stayed or went. That smile still clung to her
face, but I could see it in her eyes, she thought I was leaving her. My
heart hit against my chest as though in dire need of a breath, but I
calmed myself, and smiled at her. “I'll be right back,” I said. “I've a
small surprise.” Ashlyn looked worried, but nodded her head. I feared
she might be gone when I returned, but I knew the look she had as I
mentioned “surprise.” It was curiosity, and I knew it intimately, seeing
as how my own was insatiable.
Walking away, I looked over my
shoulder after a few feet or so, and saw Ashlyn crouched on the log,
staring after me. She had her knees tucked up into her chest, and had
her arms wrapped around them. At the time, I could only have assumed she
was cold; which gave me even more reason to find that bundle. How could
I have possibly guessed what was actually going through her mind? In my
head, I had given her my word that I'd be back, and that was that. Why
didn't I try to see things from her perspective?

To
try and make light of the situation, I often having warring thoughts
over which to blame for this. Was it just my youth, and lack of
experience that lead to this moment; or was it because I was a male, and
all men are selfish? I assume that it is a masterful combination of the
two, with a thousand other things added in.
I find myself so
often trying to analyze the construction of moments; trying to replay
memories, and see where things might have gone differently. Even in
these words I leave you now, I find myself trying to explain to you why
certain things are the way they are. Don't let me fool you, I just like
the sound of my voice and have no answers.

I spent
the next ten or so minutes casually searching through the grass, but had
no such luck. Even though the moon was giving off that beautiful glow,
as I've already mentioned an annoying amount of times, it was hard to
see through the long grass. Worried about upsetting Ashlyn, I decided to
drop down to all fours and start to really search. A creeping sense of
anxiety started to worm its way inside of me, and I frantically started
swatting at patches of tall grass, looking for that bundle. Why the hell
didn't I remember where I dropped it?
Brushing up against
the grass so often had my arms ablaze. Everyone who spends time outside
as a child knows better than to scratch an arm like this, but it grows
increasingly difficult to concentrate when your body keeps trying to
talk you into it. “Just a few scratches, just once, and then no more.
It's easy, and will feel better,” a voice poked through, probably my
father's. His always gives the worst advise. An onslaught of thoughts
came rushing from my head, and I felt like screaming inside of my own
skull. Shaking my head, I pushed them all away, and stood up for some
fresh air, and looked in a circle around me until I faintly heard Ashlyn
call my name.
“Geez, she's so impatient,” I thought to
myself. “A few more minutes,” I shouted over my shoulder, and continued
to walk away from her. I kicked through the grass, finally giving in and
scratching my arms. They'd be red in a few minutes, but I was too
frustrated to really care right now. I reached near the end of the
clearing, and decided to give up. There was no possible way I was going
to find that bundle in this light, so I turned around, and peered at the
log, and inhaled sharply.
Just like that, Ashlyn was gone.
“Where could she have possibly run off to,” I thought to myself,
started to walk quickly towards the log. “She was probably bored, so she
gave up and was playing in the water, or messing around with plants or
something,” I told myself, but then a different thought crept into my
head. “What if she thought you ran away...” it asked.
Halting, I caught my breath, and looked around the clearing, wide-eyed.
“Of course,” I thought to myself. “Of course she thought I left her,
why wouldn't she have? I gave her my word, but where in Ashlyn's history
did that mean anything?” She must have looked up when I was on my hands
and knees in the grass, and assumed I ran off. How many people lied to
her throughout her life? How many people just walked away and never came
back; and here I stand, thinking my word alone could have erased all of
that. You can do so much damage if you only look through your own eyes.
Picking up the pace, I lightly jogged my way back, feeling a biting
pain in the leg I had hurt only an hour-or-so prior. I yelled out her
name, but the wind picked up, and pushed my words away with ease. I kept
going, but then I stumbled across a particularly awful thought. “What
if she didn't casually call out my name in boredom, but was actually
shouting for help?” I thought. I thought about somebody kidnapping her,
and in a moment of weakness, started to rethink the ghost stories the
kids all told about this place. Hundreds of awful scenarios flooded my
thoughts, and I tore across the ground and raced towards the log, my
heart pounding so hard it filled my ears. My skin on my arms felt on
fire, and the the ankle of my left leg felt as though being stabbed by a
thousand small needles.
“Ashlyn!” I yelled, as I ran towards
the log, spitefully placed branches and sharp rocks cutting into my
bare feet. I yelled her name again as I reached the stream, and
tightened my legs in preparation to jump. I knew my athletic limit well
enough to know that I could make it to the other side of the stream – if
only barely – at the pace I was running with a hurt ankle. “She had to
have been taken the opposite way of me, otherwise I would have heard
her,” I thought to myself. My left leg hiked itself into the air, and I
put all of my might down through my right leg to push off for the jump.
I'd catch her before she got away, and apologize.
“Why are
you yelling, Henry!” Ashlyn hollered from behind the log, as she stood
up with the bundle wrapped around her. Thoughts and information collided
in my skull, and in that moment, the only thing I could do was stare
wide-eyed at Ashlyn uncomprehendingly, my mouth hanging open like an
imbecile. I jumped straight into the air, with my right leg stretched
behind me, but changed the calculations as I saw her. It was the
universally worst moment for me to try and back out of the jump, and it
showed as I jumped straight into the air - and full-formed - fell into
the stream. My wide-eyes and open mouth making me look like the world's
ugliest fish.

The sound of water rushed into my ears,
and its subsequent acoustic echoing kept ringing as I just laid in the
water, staring up at the sky. I still hadn't fully understood what was
happening, but I was subconsciously starting to piece it all together. I
had placed my bundle near the log, which was the most logical place to
have put it, and Ashlyn was calling to let me know she found it. When I
finally stood up, and the water drained itself from my ears, I heard a
shrill noise, and looked about in confusion. Ashlyn was doubled over,
and laughing so hard, she seemed to be trying to hold her stomach in.
Picking myself up, I walked over to Ashlyn, and crouched down beside
her. “Henry, you should have seen the look on your face!” she managed
to bark out between fits of giggling. She tried to imitate the look on
my face, but was too busy fighting a war between laughter and breathing.
Having such anxiety plucked out of you in such a fashion can't possibly
be good for the body. Still quite shaken, I walked near her, and looked
her directly in the eyes. “I thought... I thought that you were in
danger,” I said. Ashlyn wiped her eyes, and asked “what are you talking
about,” but I interrupted her with a flying hug. This was my big
romantic moment, the moment I knew I'd never let any harm come to Ashlyn
again.
In my mind, I'd wrap her up in my arms, and she'd
blush, looking deep into my eyes. “Ashlyn,” I'd say. “Wha-what is it,
Henry?” she'd ask, but I wouldn't respond with words. I'd pull her
close, and kiss her deeply, letting her know how much she meant to me,
and she would return it. I'd promise her that we'd run away together as I
had been planning on for so long now, and we'd finish this life the
same as all the books I read: happily ever after.
Throwing my
arms around Ashlyn, my plan immediately derailed as the inertia of my
larger body crashed into her, sending us both tumbling into the stream.
This would be the first step I took in realizing that you cannot
calculate life. It happens just the way it wants to. Soaked to the bone,
Ashlyn face turned red, and she turned towards me.
“Damn you
Henry Showalter, you didn't need to get both of us sick!” she yelled.
Staring at her, I didn't know what to say, so I just shrugged instead.
Ashlyn dipped her hand into the stream, and splashed water at me with a
pout on her face. As I stared at her through the wet hair clinging to my
face, and the look of shock that she had splashed me like that, we both
started to laugh again, and eventually found out way out of the water.

I understand any skepticism you may have over our budding
relationship at this point. For all of the similarities we share, Ashlyn
and myself seem to almost be complete opposites. Ashlyn is so sure of
herself, and of the world around her, except for people. To her, a dark
forest full of trees is easier to walk through than one filled with
people. I used to think I knew who I was, but I am constantly surprised
at the things that change me. One day, my father passed out on the porch
could push me over the edge, but by the next day I walk around his
sleeping body as I think deeply about a blister on my hand, brought home
from work. I quickly came to realize I have no idea who I am, or
whenever I find out, that person runs away.
Despite all the
differences between us, I believed we were both falling in love at this
point. It's unbelievable that it appeared so suddenly, but I'd like to
think that's just how love is sometimes. We weren't in a storybook
romance, where innocuous plot points would always masterfully point us
back towards each other in the end. We weren't lovers favored by any
patterns of stars. We were just two lonely humans that found out we
shared something with somebody else out there, and it was just as
terrifying a thought as it was wonderful.